


plain as they can see

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Character Study (of sorts), First Kiss, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, The Nightmare Before Christmas - Freeform, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>God. Patrick’s so in love, it’s pathetic. Why did he agree to watch this movie again?</em>
</p><p> <em>Oh, right. For Pete. Because he’s wrapped around Pete’s finger like a guitar string around a tuning key, and God knows Pete’s wrapped around his the same way.</em></p><p>###</p><p>Pete shows Patrick "The Nightmare before Christmas" for the first time. Patrick finds out why it's so important to him...and maybe he finds out a little more than that, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	plain as they can see

**Author's Note:**

> got this idea after a movie and a nap yesterday. i was told to write it, so i did. unedited, unbetaed, basically off the top of my head. also what are timelines idfk but hope you like it!
> 
> NOTE: I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS MUSIC OR ANYTHING. ALL THAT STUFF BELONGS TO TIM BURTON AND DAN ELFMAN. IT'S NOT MINE. NEITHER IS FOB. SADLY.

“Patrick?”

“…Mmmph.”

“Paaaattycakes.”

_“Mnnmff!”_

“…’Triiiiiii—”

“God, _what,_ Pete?” Patrick sits up in his sleeping bag and rubs his eyes as he blinks blearily at Pete Wentz— _the_ Pete Wentz, from Arma and Racetraitor and a million other bands Patrick had worshipped; the Pete Wentz who, as it turns out, isn’t the cool, laid-back Casanova that everyone makes him out to be.

The Pete Wentz who is now Patrick’s bandmate and best friend in the universe, which still shocks the hell out of both of them sometimes.

This fact alone is the thing that saves Pete from being pummeled by the tiny, exhausted lead singer of his slightly-better-than-shitty pop punk band in the back of their definitely shitty van at one in the morning. Patrick stares at him, squinting in the darkness, wishing they were both asleep and making good use of this break Andy had proposed a state or two ago. They’re parked in the lot of a rest stop off I-57, somewhere in Missouri, and Joe and Andy are snoring softly on the seats above them. Patrick is jealous.

Pete smiles his stupid toothy grin and pokes Patrick’s side with a bony finger. “I can’t sleep,” he says grumpily.

 _No shit, Wentzlock._ “Huh, that’s weird, neither can I,” Patrick grouses, shivering as the chill of the October evening creeps into the van’s dented bodywork. He puts his glasses on and hopes Pete can at least feel the withering glare being aimed at him.

But as Patrick’s eyes further adjust to the darkness, he makes out more details of the older boy’s face: the lines in the corners of his eyes look deeper than normal; there’s shadows under his eyes that are definitely not from the poor lighting they’re in; and fatigue is weighing down the edges of his smile, which looks more forced than it had a few seconds ago.

Patrick’s come to learn many things about The Famous Pete Wentz during the couple of years they’ve been bandmates—and in the past month or so they’ve spent holed up in this van together. He’s discovered that, on his good days, Pete’s an energetic ball of furious creative energy that thrives on stupid dares, physical touch (both platonic and sexual), caffeine, and music. He’s constantly laughing and joking and bouncing everywhere, hanging on everyone he can reach, though Patrick seems to be his favorite target for surprise hugs. On his bad days, though…Patrick doesn’t like to think about those days. He’d rather not recall the way Pete’s face looks after he’s cried for three hours, puffy and flushed and streaked with week-old eyeliner. Patrick heart always aches at the sound of Pete’s nightmare screams, and he has to try to keep his voice from quivering while he softly sings the older boy back to sleep, holding him close and petting his hair. Pete barely gets any sleep anyway—it’s not fair that the few hours he’s rewarded with each week get interrupted by horrible dreams. The thunderstorm that’s constantly raging in Pete’s head and just under his skin must be so exhausting; Patrick has no idea how he manages to live with it.

In conclusion, Pete’s an obnoxious shit at times, but he’s also kind and selfless and genuine and a fucking genius with words. On top of all that, he’s the most stubborn, loyal friend Patrick’s ever had, troubles and all.

He might also be the most beautiful human being Patrick’s ever seen and the only one Patrick’s ever been even remotely in love with, but. That’s another story.

All this means that Patrick isn’t entirely surprised at Pete’s current bout of insomnia. Some of the annoyance he’d initially felt wears away as he meets Pete’s dark, tired eyes with his own. “You want me to sing for you?” he asks, shifting automatically to make room for Pete beside him. His voice is still raspy with sleep, but Pete usually doesn’t mind.

The bassist bites his lip and shrugs, looking away from Patrick’s face. His smile falters and disappears. “Think I’m a little too wired for that to work,” he admits softly after a few seconds, picking at a thread on his hoodie sleeve. His knees draw up to his chest and he wraps his arms around them, shrinking himself into the tiny, tortured young artist only Patrick is allowed to see. “Actually, I…don’t even know why I woke you up. Sorry. You—You can go back to—”

“Hey, no, stop.” Patrick grips Pete’s arm comfortingly and dips his head to catch his gaze again. “Sorry I snapped at you. I’m tired too. But if you need me to help you, y’know, shut your mind off, I will.” He smiles a little, hoping Pete can see it.

Pete glances up at him almost shyly and offers him a tiny grin. There’s fondness and gratitude shining in his whiskey-colored eyes, along with something else that makes Patrick’s heart skip and clench a bit.

Sniffling, Pete sits up a little straighter and shrugs one shoulder. “A movie might help,” he says finally.

Patrick nods, letting go of Pete’s arm and immediately missing the contact. “Sounds good. Got one in mind?”

Pete thinks for barely a moment before his face lights up and he blurts, “ _Nightmare Before Christmas!_ It’s October, isn’t it? Perfect timing!”

“Sssh, quiet down!” Patrick hisses, looking furtively over his shoulder at the van seats. “Half the band’s still asleep, asshole.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.” The older boy looks around in the dark for a few seconds until he spots the small cardboard box of DVDs they’d brought on tour with them, crammed in the corner next to the speaker that hadn’t fit in their miniscule trailer. He crawls over and shines the bluish light of his flip phone into the box, rummaging around until he finds the black-and-yellow case. He holds it up triumphantly and beams at Patrick as he scoots back to his side. “Got it!”

Patrick takes it from him and flips it over, reading the description on the back. It’s a creepy stop-motion Burton film, so of course Pete loves it, but Patrick knows this one is particularly special to him—special enough to inspire a tattoo sleeve. Oddly enough, Patrick’s never thought to ask why. He’s also never seen _Nightmare_ before, and he tells Pete so.

“Why do you think I suggested it?” he chuckles. “You’re gonna love it, ‘Trick, I promise. It’s a fuckin’ masterpiece. And if it gets too scary, I’ll hold your hand, don’t worry.”

Patrick punches his shoulder, suddenly grateful for the darkness now that it’s hiding his blush. “Shut up, dickface, I’ll be fine. Where’s the piece of crap Sony player thing?”

After five minutes of blind searching and whispered curses, the two exhausted boys finally settle themselves against the side of the van, shoulders pressed together and legs covered by a (slightly fragrant) fleece blanket. Pete determines that the player has just enough battery life left for the hour-long movie, and they insert the disk, making sure the volume is on low.

As the menu pops up and Patrick presses PLAY, Pete whispers to him, “Just so you know, I’m probably gonna mouth the words to every song. And quote every scene.”

“I figured,” Patrick replies dryly, balancing the player on their legs. “How many times have you seen this movie, exactly?”

“Dunno. Somewhere in the low twenties, I think.”

“Good God. How emo can one person—?”

“ _Sssh,_ it’s starting!”

Five seconds later, though, as ominous music starts playing from the tiny speakers, Pete adds in a rush, “Also, I know you, like, analyze music and stuff—which, that’s awesome and everything, you’re a genius—but, like, the point of the songs in this movie is the _words,_ so make sure you—”

Something clicks in Patrick’s head, and he pauses the movie thirteen seconds in. “Pete.” He rests one hand on Pete’s knee through the blanket and turns to look at him. He knows this is pretty much the most important movie in Pete’s life, and Pete’s told him a few times that Patrick’s the most important person in Pete’s life (which makes Patrick’s chest both ache and feel like it’s glowing), so. Maybe Patrick didn’t realize at first how much this might actually mean to his best friend.

He squeezes Pete’s knee and smiles at him. “I promise I’ll pay attention,” he murmurs solemnly. “Okay? I’ll listen to every word.”

The bassist relaxes then, quirking a tiny grin. He turns back to the small screen and hits PLAY again, leaning more heavily against Patrick.

As the music picks up and the grotesque Burton characters start to creep onscreen and sing in warbling voices of every kind, Pete’s head drops onto Patrick’s shoulder. His greasy black-and-red hair still smells kind of like the shampoo from last week’s hotel, and Patrick’s heart starts to pound uneasily in his chest, but he breathes it in anyway. He sighs softly and slumps a little to make Pete more comfortable; the older boy hums and presses a little closer, his hair tickling the sensitive skin of Patrick’s neck. Patrick does his best not to shiver and mentally commands his young, annoyingly alert dick to calm the fuck down.

 _This is to help him sleep,_ the singer reminds himself as Pete hooks their arms loosely together. _That’s all it is. It doesn’t mean anything. Why would he want someone like you, anyway? You’re a chubby, balding teenager with anger issues. Also, hello, you’ve got a dick. Not exactly his type._

Something heavy and cold settles in the pit of Patrick’s stomach. He shoves these (increasingly common) thoughts to the back of his mind and focuses on the movie, chuckling when Pete does, trying to distract himself from the heartache he’s had to live with for two years now.

The first song is moderately upbeat and introductory, of course—very Halloween-y, very much up Pete’s alley—but the next one is…different. Jack Skellington (Patrick recognizes him from Pete’s arm) had seemed so happy in front of all the Halloween Town citizens, but now he’s a lot more reserved and quiet as he walks slowly through a spooky grey forest.

He starts to sing. After shaking off a quick pang of envy at the voice actor’s deep, smooth, perfect voice, Patrick listens to the lyrics closely. At first they’re boastful and grandiose, accompanied by cymbals and brass, but then…

_“Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones_

_An emptiness began to grow_

_There’s something out there, far from my home_

_A longing that I’ve never known…”_

There’s strings and flutes and it almost sounds like a waltz, only Jack is dancing alone. His eyes are simple black circles, empty sockets in his cartoonish skull, but the pain in them is easy to see. Patrick’s heart twists as he hears Pete softly whispering every line.

Things start clicking together in Patrick’s head, despite his tiredness.

_“But who here would ever understand_

_That the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin_

_Would tire of his crown, if they only understood_

_He’d give it all up, if he only could…”_

Pete…Pete’s Jack. Larger-than-life, king of his scene, the poster child for his culture. He smiles for every crazy groupie who begs for his autograph and every camera that flashes in his face, but underneath it all he’s half-dead and wishing for…something else. Quiet, maybe? Solitude? Patrick isn’t sure.

_“The fame and praise come year after year_

_Does nothing for these empty tears.”_

No wonder Jack’s the most prominent character in Pete’s tat. Patrick hears the earnestness in Pete’s soft voice as he recites the song verbatim under his breath and he rests his head against the older boy’s, protectiveness and affection building up in his chest. Pete sighs quietly and relaxes further against him. Neither one of them says anything.

Luckily, both Jack and Pete perk up a little during the next scene, which has a much more hopeful soundtrack. Pete taps Patrick’s leg and whispers along, and Patrick smiles to himself. He can’t help it when his foot starts twitching to the beat—this song isn’t half bad, actually. He thinks he’s heard it before—probably on Pete’s phone.

When Jack returns from the land of Christmas and describes it all wrong to the Halloween Town ghouls, Patrick laughs and shakes his head in amusement. Sure, there’s some morbid points here and there that kind of make his skin crawl, but the scene’s funny as a whole. Pete even laughs at the morbid parts, but that isn’t much of a surprise. “They think _severed heads_ are _presents,”_ he giggles against Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s the best thing ever.” Patrick rolls his eyes, but he lets Pete enjoy himself.

The next scene focuses on someone else, though—a character they’d met in the beginning of the movie: Sally the ragdoll, who’s immortalized in ink on the back of Pete’s forearm. She seems sweet and forlorn and longing for freedom from her cruel master, who’s kept her trapped in his home as his slave for her whole life. Patrick thinks of his parents and his high school and decides that he relates to her in that sense. Sure, he’s never tried to poison his parents with deadly nightshade, but.

Then, of course, Sally starts to sing. The music is melancholy and her voice is high and reedy, but Patrick sort of likes it. The words are fearful in the first verse and Patrick doesn’t think much of them, but then the bridge comes, and that fear turns to wistfulness.

_“And does he notice_

_My feelings for him?_

_And will he see how much he means to me?_

_I think it’s not to be…”_

Fuck. Patrick’s heart starts thumping out a frenzied beat and his hand sweats where it’s placed casually on Pete’s knee.

He’s not completely ignorant. He’s heard of Jack and Sally before; they’re referenced in a fucking Blink song, for fuck’s sake. And it’d been easy to see from the beginning that they were meant for each other—after all, he’s bone without flesh, and she’s flesh without bone. They complete each other on a fundamental level. But _fuck,_ Patrick hadn’t been expecting such a blatant confession. He feels himself blushing, and he forces himself to not look over at Pete.

Pete, who’s whispering the words of this song, as well.

 _Fuck my life._ Patrick keeps listening.

Sally’s scared for Jack’s safety, of course. She feels protective of him, wants him to make the right choices that will keep him and the people he cares about safe. Even while everyone else is cheering him on, she’s in the background, watching him from a distance, wanting him. Patrick recalls the countless stunts he’s watched Pete pull (sure, many of them had been officiated by Dirty, but that’s not important) and he feels a pang of anger rush through him. Some of the shit Pete’s done—like jumping off a fucking house with a patio umbrella and taking a mixture of different pills every day—makes Patrick worry like he never has for anyone else. He’d like to laugh along with everyone else and cheer Pete on, keep that bright, contagious smile on his face, but he’s so terrified that one day something will happen, he’ll go too far, get too carried away…

_“And will we ever_

_End up together?_

_No, I think not, it’s never to become_

_For I am not the one.”_

God. Patrick’s so in love, it’s pathetic. Why did he agree to watch this movie again?

Oh, right. For Pete. Because he’s wrapped around Pete’s finger like a guitar string around a tuning key, and God knows Pete’s wrapped around his the same way.

Patrick’s thoughts are interrupted by a cough from Pete. The older boy shifts a little against Patrick’s side, and Patrick hesitantly turns towards him. “You good?” he asks, cursing himself when his voice shakes.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, no, I’m fine,” Pete stammers, clearing his throat. He holds the DVD player in place as he stretches one of his legs out in front of him awkwardly. “Just—leg cramp.”

Patrick tells himself he doesn’t feel Pete’s heartbeat racing against his arm or see his face flushing pink in the dim light. He just keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the movie, trying to slow his breathing.

“You like it so far?” Pete asks quietly, making Patrick jump a little.

“Y-Yeah, it—it’s really good,” the singer says, nodding emphatically without moving his eyes from the screen. “I mean, ‘s kinda creepy or whatever, but. I like it a lot. And the music’s great.” _Wait wait fuck was that too obvious fuck fuckfuckshitfuck—_

But Patrick hears the smile in Pete’s voice when he says, “Told you it was awesome. Wanna get some tattoos to match mine?”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “No, Pete.”

“You will one day.”

“Don’t think so.”

They watch as the disfigured townsfolk create what they believe to be perfect presents: bloodthirsty wreaths, bat ornaments, a quacking duck toy decorated with bleeding bullet holes (“I want one!” Pete declares, and Patrick shakes his head fondly). Sally makes Jack his own Santa suit, and the real Santa is kidnapped by three children and delivered to an animated burlap sack named Oogie Boogie, whom Patrick has also heard of. His theme song is very jazzy with some blues undertones; it’s almost Tom Waits-esque. Patrick nods his head and taps Pete’s knee to the beat as he gets drawn into the beautiful animation of the scene. It’s a decent tune; he hopes he can write something even half as catchy someday.

Everything seems to be going relatively well for everyone, but soon shit starts to hit the fan. Jack sets off to deliver the demonic presents; Oogie captures Sally when she tries to save Santa; and the kids of the world start to realize something is amiss when they open their spider-laden gifts only to discover shrunken heads and vampire dolls. Jack keeps flying with his skeletal reindeer and his casket sleigh, and Patrick feels oddly bad for him—he’s only trying to make everyone happy after spending his life scaring them. But they don’t understand—they shoot him out of the sky and he ends up in a graveyard, sprawled in the arms of a stone angel.

Patrick holds his breath as the next song starts.

_“What have I done?_

_What have I done?_

_How could I be so blind…_

_…Find a deep cave to hide in_

_In a million years they’ll find me_

_Only dust and a plaque…_

_…And nobody really understood, well, how could they?_

_That all I ever wanted was to bring them something great_

_Why does nothing ever turn out like it should?”_

Pete breathes every word against Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick can’t help but shift and wrap and arm around him, drawing him closer. The song’s picking up now—Jack’s realizing that he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone else to be happy; Patrick hopes Pete discovers that someday—but the two of them aren’t really paying much attention. Pete sighs quietly and buries his face in Patrick’s neck for a few long moments. Patrick just holds him.

Sally only wants the best for Jack. She wants him to see that he’s good as himself, doing what he loves, what he’s meant to do, and that he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything else just to make other people like him better. She loves him for who and what he is, and Patrick can’t believe Jack hasn’t seen it yet.

Just like he can’t fucking believe Pete can’t see how fucking head-over-heels Patrick is for him. And unlike Jack, Pete’s probably never gonna figure it out. And while part of Patrick is relieved by that notion—it would save him the embarrassment of rejection and probably save the band, as well—the other part of him wants to grab Pete by the collar of one of his stupid hoodies and shake him until he realizes what’s right in front of him. He doesn’t need those random groupies after every gig, doesn’t need quick fucks in back alleys and gross club bathrooms.

Why can’t he see that Patrick’s _right here?_

Patrick’s soul feels empty and sore, despite the fact that Pete’s literally curled up in his arms. Patrick almost wants to shove him away, scream _Fuck  you, why do you give me all this hope just to rip it away every time you kiss someone else, what’s wrong with me, why am I not enough,_ but he just doesn’t have the strength. He’d probably die without Pete’s touch, his friendship, and he’d never do anything to risk it. If that means having to live his life without knowing how Pete tastes, or what it’s like to hold his hand in restaurants and fall asleep next to him every night, he’ll do it. It’ll hurt like hell—it already does—but he’ll do it.

Before Patrick realizes what’s happening, the movie’s basically over, and it’s snowing in Halloween Town. The crowd is celebrating, everyone is thrilled…except Sally. She sulks away to the hill where Jack had sung at the beginning of the movie and collapses in the snow, alone again. Just like Patrick.

And then, a voice.

_“My dearest friend_

_If you don’t mind…”_

It’s Jack. Patrick feels Pete shift under his arm.

_“I’d like to join you by your side…”_

“…Patrick?” Pete’s voice is a whisper, barely there, buffeting the flushed skin of Patrick’s cheek. The younger boy turns, heart in his throat, and finds himself nose-to-nose with his best friend.

_“Where we could gaze into the stars_

_And sit together…”_

Should he dare to hope?

_“Now and forever…”_

“Yeah?”

_“For it is plain_

_As anyone can see…”_

Pete licks his lips and glances down at Patrick’s, reaching for his hand and gripping it tight. “I…I want to—can I—?”

“Yes,” Patrick breathes before he can stop himself, and he leans in.

_“We’re simply meant to be.”_

###


End file.
